


suffocating (i'm tearing up, across your face)

by paintedviolet



Category: Pitch Perfect (Movies)
Genre: Beca's POV, Canon Divergent Ending, F/F, Fluff, Post-Pitch Perfect 1 but Pre-Pitch Perfect 2, Pre-Movie, Some angst, bechloe endgame, mostly canon compliant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-28
Updated: 2015-08-28
Packaged: 2018-04-17 18:09:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,908
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4676315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paintedviolet/pseuds/paintedviolet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You’re 18 when you discover that your life isn’t always going to be like this, that you’re not always going to be walking around with the chains locked and ready around your neck.</p>
            </blockquote>





	suffocating (i'm tearing up, across your face)

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so the title is a lot more angsty than the fic actually is, but I chose it because it reflects the main themes of the story. Anyway, this is my take on the first Pitch Perfect movie with Bechloe as endgame. Enjoy!
> 
> Work title (mostly) taken from Perth // Bon Iver.

You’re 1 when you discover what it feels like to be suffocating.

You can’t remember what it was like – sometimes you can’t even remember what you had for lunch – but your mom has told you this story before. Your father was at work and your mother was just about to fall asleep out of sheer exhaustion when she heard you choking from your highchair. Your face was purple, and your expression was a mixture of panic and indignation. (Nothing’s changed.)

She sprang into action and got the food out of your throat in no time; nothing came of the incident. Your mom, who has since travelled the world, still says that it was the most terrifying thing she’s ever been through.

 

.

 

You’re 8 when you watch the news about a serial killer’s capture with some sort of morbid fascination.

She strangled people, and slit their throats. Her victims were always people she knew – she would get to know them, and then stay over at their house for a weekend before surprising them on the last night of her visit. They were always asleep when she killed them, preferring to choke them with her bare hands before they were asphyxiated. Then she cut a knife along their throat for the pleasure of it. She got away with being near to the murder by proclaiming she’d just thought her friend/lover/family member was still asleep so she’d let herself out. She continued like this for two years.

As you watch the news bulletin, you think it’d be awful to be suffocated by the ones you love. They’d be cutting off the one thing you need just as much as you needed them.

 

.

 

At the age of 10, it feels like just that has happened.

Your parents file for a divorce. It surprises you, but it shouldn't. Your parents have been arguing for the last few years, lately about the stupidest little things. About how Mom left the fridge door open. About how Dad never wants to watch movies with the two of them anymore. You don’t care whether he watches movies with you or not; you just want them to _shut up_ , because you’re fed up of being stuck in your room while the two people you love most attack each other with scathing remarks and biting accusations.

They don’t seem to get it. What’s worse is that they use you as a weapon against each other. You’re not a weapon, you’re not a commodity to claim. You’re a child, a child who gets so upset sometimes and your parents can’t stop screaming at each other to even notice it.

You feel betrayed. You feel like everything you've known about family life has been torn to shreds. But you don’t tell them this as they argue about custody and the implications involving affairs. You don’t say anything, lest they use it against each other. Right now, you wish you weren't part of this stupid, dysfunctional family, so you didn't have to think about you wanted to say.

Your mom is better than your dad; while he’s always gone off to work – or, you’re beginning to understand, to see his girlfriend, Sheila – she’s been there to help you with growing up. Or, she was. Now you don’t see her as much, only at dinner and in the mornings. But most nights, she comes to your bedroom and cradles you. You pretend to be asleep for most of it, but your heart is beating with anger and longing.

The truth is, you’re suffocating. It’s a toxic environment, and it’s worked its way into your lungs. No one can keep you breathing, no one even gets close. Besides, no one’s even _around_ when it happens – you’re always in your room, listening to the shouting from downstairs, and that’s when it starts.

Only music helps. Music flushes out the toxins in your system; it makes you calm, focused. Your CDs are a lifeline at this point, and you wish you could just jump into the universe each song lives in and spend forever just exploring the sounds they create.

But it’s a brief respite. It’s roughly an hour of breathing slowly, and when it’s gone the panic settles back in your lungs again.

Not so much, though. Things get a little easier each time. Music is your lifeline; you can never let go of it. People betray you; music never does.

 

.

 

By the time you’re 16, you’re living with your mom while your dad spends his time with the stepmonster and their new son, Nick. Nick is okay, but you've long since tired of little kids and he tends to pull your hair. Your dad sends you messages, sometimes, saying (amongst other boring things) that you should be nice to your half-brother. You prefer not to reply to any of his texts, but when you do, it’s derisive and laced with sarcasm. You know he doesn't like it, so you do it more.

You’re still furious with him. He was the one who left you six years ago; he left the both of you for a woman who doesn't know how to switch on a computer and can’t spend more than three seconds looking at you before the contempt in her eyes becomes evident. He left you both and never came back. It’s only now that he’s considered meeting up.

For the first time in six years. It’s a joke. You don’t even want to talk to him, let alone see his receding hairline and weak eyes. He deserves all of the regret he says he feels, though you’re convinced he’s lying about that too. He lied to your mom for three years; you wouldn't put it beneath him.

Shockingly, your mom thinks it’s a good idea. You thought she was on your side – she hated the fact that he’d cheated as much as you did, and you’d bonded because of it – but she explains that you can’t keep on hating him forever. That he’s still your father, no matter what.

You’d be damned if you didn't give it a try, though.

He’s not the only person you blame (you like to chuck a lot of it on the witch he’s now married to as well) – because your mom was a part of this, too. But she _does_ regret her actions, you can see it every day. The way she never fully smiles at anyone but you. The way her face gets dark when he tries to phone her to talk about your education or whatever. And although what they both did hurts, you don’t demonize her. She was there when he wasn't, even if she wasn't always present herself.

Honestly? She’s pretty much the only person who knows more of the real you. The suffocation you felt – _still_ feel, after all this time – made you learn to dislike the outside world. You don’t trust people. They always let you down. You've seen it throughout your whole life: kids are cruel, friends leave you when you go to different schools with little more than a shrug, and the person you thought loved you left his wife and daughter for a woman who hates the very idea of you. You've seen more bitter goodbyes than happy endings, and you don’t want to subject yourself to the former because you foolishly thought you had a chance at the latter.

So you put up walls, walking through the school corridors with heavy eyeliner, headphones around your ears, and a homicidal glare to go with it. No one talks to you; they rush to move out of the way like the sea divided for Moses.

You like it that way. Less people to get hurt by. You do have friends, but only a few – and they don’t get close. They know to give you space. You can’t say you’ll particularly miss them when you move to LA.

You've got your future all planned out, of course. Your special relationship with music has only blossomed – you've gone from listening to CDs and escaping inside the sounds to getting your own mixing board and DJ program on your computer. It was the best present ever (aside from your trusty headphones), and as soon as you started playing with it, you knew this was what you wanted to do in life. Music has always been your thing (whether you realized it when you were younger or not), so you can’t imagine getting a crappy job in an office somewhere. No, LA is the place for you. You want to get a job as a DJ somewhere and work your way up to be a music producer.

Music is what you can do. Music is what you’re good at. Nothing embraces you more effectively than deep bass and the beat that pulses through your heart.

Your mom is a journalist; she’s planning to go a world tour with one band or another when you leave home. She supports you in everything you do (except for closing yourself off, she doesn't like that), so naturally she loves the idea of you mixing beats. She says you've got a gift for mashups, and that makes your heart swell. But that’s not the biggest motivation you receive.

Your dad hates the idea. He wants you to go to college when you’re 18. He thinks DJing is just a hobby, a financially unstable hobby. He says you need to get your head out of the clouds and start thinking properly about your future.

He’s an idiot. What he says about mixing just spurs you on to do it more. You have no idea how he hasn't seen this yet.

 

.

 

When you’re 17, you realise that you’re bisexual.

It scares you. No, screw that – it fucking terrifies you.

You have no idea what your parents may think about it (it’s never been mentioned in the house, even though your mom is pretty lenient for a mother), but you know what people think about it. This is America; people are divided over this sort of stuff.

As it happens, you’re not confused by the fact that you like girls. (And possibly non-binary people too, though you haven’t explored that yet.) That’s very clear to see in your mind – it’s something you’re extremely content in. No, your problem is with other people. Your sexuality brings a vulnerability that you don’t want to consider. If you open up to people, and they reject you because of this, the chain around your throat will get tighter. It’s still unlikely to happen, because you don’t let people in – but what about your family? Your mom? Your dad? What if – when you get a job – the people at work treat you weirdly because of it? You’re just a baby in this world; the idea of something new terrifies you. It’s always a while before you settle down into things and forget about caring what others will think of you.

But this is hard. This is new. This means you have to expose yourself to people all over again. You don’t want to do that.

The night you realize, you mix songs together to chase the thoughts away until the sun rises and your mom finds you asleep, still in your chair with your head down at your desk.

She never catches you like this. Sometimes you’re awake until 4am, eyes glued to the screen in front of you, but you've never mixed yourself to sleep. She knows something is wrong; she guides you over to your bed and holds you like she used to.

“What’s wrong, honey? You can tell me anything, you know,” she mumbles, rubbing small circles into your arm with her thumb.

You feel a bit uncomfortable; you don’t like intimacy. You don’t like people touching you. But you feel so small and your head is still hazy with sleep, you feel like you’re really young again and all you want is some support, and the suffocating is starting to hurt now and you can’t swallow and—

“I’m bisexual,” you blurt out. “Mom, I-I like girls as – as well.”

You think it’s a fucking miracle that you managed to get those 8 words out without breaking down or choking on them, but your mother’s hands only still for a moment before they continue rubbing your arms like they were before. But she hasn't said anything, she hasn't said anything, what is she going to say? You think you really are going to choke, and your mom isn’t here to save you.

“Beca, I know,” she smiles at you. Wait, what? “You had a crush on that Elly girl in sixth grade, remember? You got all flustered when she was in the same room as you. And you can’t say I haven’t seen who your eyes land on when we watch TV shows, darling.”

She knows. The chain around your throat releases its vice-like grip and you huff with relief.

“Just so you know, I don’t think of you differently because of that at all. I just want you to be happy, you know that? I've made mistakes in the past but I’m giving it everything I have to make sure you’re content, Beca. You’re my baby; don’t forget that.”

You can’t say anything. You just shake your head and swallow again. You feel light again. Happier. You don’t have to hide that part of yourself around your mom.

It’s the best feeling.

 

.

 

You’re 18 when you discover that your life isn’t always going to be like this, that you’re not always going to be walking around with the chains locked and ready around your neck.

You’re 18 when you discover that there _are_ people who alleviate the chafing of the cold, unforgiving metal; they can give you the confidence to detach the chains from your neck yourself.

You’re 18 when you discover this, and you find one such person in the last place you expected to find her.

* * *

 

This is another type of suffocation entirely. You’re 18, and you’re enrolled at Barden University, the place where your dad works as a professor for Comparative Literature. It’s bright, it’s open, and it’s as tacky as you thought it would be. The girl who welcomes you when you arrive looks way too happy to be talking about the official Barden rape whistle, and the dudes assessing girls with scorecards as they walk by make you want to punch their faces.

You hate it. You hate it as much as you thought you would. But you’re stuck, and there’s nothing you can do about it.

You’re stuck with bright pavements and tedious classes, with an uncompromising roommate who disapprovingly calls you “the white girl”, and with the chance of your dad coming to see how you’re doing.

(God, he’s so _annoying._ )

He does just that, too – on your first day, when you’re contemplating escape plans as you set up your beloved mixing board, he makes an awful joke about wine coolers and interrupts your lack of productivity by introducing himself to Kimmy Jin. You just really don’t want to be anywhere near him, so you follow your moody roommate out to the grounds, where everyone is getting applications for their crappy clubs.

This place is so restricting. You can’t wait to leave. You've been weighed down by restrictions all your life – your age, your walls, your dysfunctional family – but this one really rubs it in. This is a farce, an illusion of freedom while you’re forced to listen to professors drone on about the human mind or whatever. Living on campus is as bad as thought it would be, and seeing all of _this_ in front of you is even worse.

Little stalls, painted and decorated so brightly you wish you’d brought sunglasses. People beaming at you until they become the latest victim of your death glare. Random leaflets being handed out to you, random people passing by and chirping about god-awful subjects with their god-awful buddies.

This is another type of suffocation entirely. It’s disguised with degrees and pretty banners, but you can spot it from a mile off. The panic, though, does not set in suddenly and make it hard to breathe. It’s just always there, settling in your bones, making you wish the year would just fly by.

Then you spot a pair of women holding flyers in front of a tacky little stall. It only catches your attention for a second, but then your eyes fall upon the redhead – and before you know it, you can’t look away.

It’s not your fault. She’s looking at _you_. But you can’t tear your gaze away. She has beautiful, flowing red hair that comes in waves. Her smile is perky, perhaps a bit _too_ stretched but there all the same. And her eyes – you hate yourself for fixating on them and being such a damn cliché, but they’re the most incredible eyes you've ever seen. They’re just _so_ blue. They honest-to-God _sparkle_ , like she’s just seen the answer to all of her problems. They’re so wide and so big that they catch your attention before you even realise they’re pulling you in, and when they do you’re surrounded by ebbing currents of peace and calm.

You manage to look down at your feet, cheeks burning at the thoughts in your head. That was soppy as hell and you’re ashamed for even thinking that. She’s probably one of those cheerleader-type girls, preppy and totally down to backstab anyone. If not her, then her friend could make up for it. The blonde looks like she could use a years’ supply of Ambien.

But the redhead calls out to you, and suddenly you’re talking to the both of them about their a cappella group. _The Barden Bellas_ , apparently. It sounds utterly and soul-destroyingly lame – and you tell them it’s lame, for good measure – but the beautiful redhead makes it sound like it’s a gift from God. She even calls the group “the tits” (which, really? Not helping when the girl who says that is so attractive). You’re weirdly relieved to discover that she’s actually not all that bad – definitely not the bitchy cheerleader type – but you _were_ right about her friend, Aubrey. You didn't realize she could get a stick up her ass that far, but she manages to do it. You can see she doesn't like you. That makes the feeling mutual.

You politely but impolitely decline your offer, and think nothing more of it. But as you go on, you can only think about how there’s really nothing for you here. What you thought was a DJ club turned out to be a deaf Jews’ club (while you’re there, you meet an eccentric but admittedly amusing Australian), and the only thing you actually sign up for is an internship at the local radio station.

It’s not much, but it’s something. It’s something recognizable. In this sea of asphyxiating unfamiliarity, the radio station feels a little bit like what you’re used to. It’s a little bit like home, in a way. If it’s the only extra-curricular thing you do here, you’re totally okay with that. You can’t imagine wanting to do much else, anyway.

(Your metaphor for the sea of unfamiliarity makes you think of the redhead again, and how blue her eyes are. But you’re determined to shove that completely out of your mind. She’s nothing. This place is nothing, just an obstacle.)

(You fail.)

 

.

 

When you’re in the shower, you almost die from getting the biggest shock of your life.

Okay, maybe the parents’ divorce was the biggest shock of your life. (But you should’ve seen that one coming.) And perhaps your dad surprising you with a deal to help you move to LA and _actually_ start your life after one year of college if you don’t like it should've surprised you more. But there is nothing to prepare you for this.

All you were doing was singing Titanium. It’s a legendary song, by a DJ you admire, so you can’t help it if the melody and the lyrics slip out of your tongue when you believe you’re alone. But one minute you think there’s no one around you – and then someone jumps into your _shower cubicle_.

Even worse, it’s the _redhead_. “You _can_ sing!” She’s staring at you like a predator. You wish you hadn't left your BU rape whistle now.

“Dude!” You’d recognise that chipper voice anywhere, but she’s still not excused for her behaviour. She’s in your goddamn _shower_. You’re both butt-naked, for crying out loud! You pull the curtain across to cover you, but she rips it back almost immediately. The _nerve_.

“How high does your belt go?” She sounds so unaffected by your agitation, and you almost wonder if she does this often. Maybe you should rethink your judgements about these two girls; clearly the redhead’s the crazier of the two.

“My what? Oh, my God!” you respond, flustered. This girl has zero concept of personal space, and it’s made even worse by the fact that her eyes are boring into you. It’s a struggle just to tear your own eyes away from them to cover yourself up. But you manage to, and you feel better for it.

The redhead is either blind, or very determined. “You _have_ to audition for the Bellas!” she demands of you, her voice as sweet and as light as her smile. It’s crazy, really, how one person can be as constantly upbeat as this.

“I can’t concentrate on anything you’re saying until you cover your junk.” And that’s true; your agitation isn’t just embarrassment. You kind of forgot how gorgeous this girl is after you walked away from her that first day, but now she’s right in front of you and you think you can count the light spikes in her sapphire irises.

This is dangerous territory. Stop it, stop it!

She rambles on about Prince’s butt or something – you don’t fully catch it, you’re not really listening. You’re trying your hardest not to say something rude to her. (She reminds you of a puppy, in a strange way. She’s not someone you want to upset. Also, you don’t know her enough to gauge how predatory she really is.) You’re also trying really hard not to look at her body, but you slip up a few times – and _wow_. Yeah. Okay. You try to cover it up with dropping your shampoo, and she’s talking too much to really notice.

Then she mentions David Guetta, and your interest sparks. You’re surprised – pleasantly – that she knows him, so you finally listen to what she’s saying. And she does appear to know her music, so she’s definitely not as bad as you’d expect.

Your interest fades again when she divulges too much information and says it’s her lady jam – dude, _gross_. You tell her that after she honest-to-God winks at you, because it’s the only option you have after melting into a puddle right there and then.

(Honestly, who winks at people they've just met? Who even _is_ this girl?)

But then she’s asking you to sing, and she announces that you won’t leave until you do. So – definitely because you just want her out of your damn shower – you do sing. And then she joins in.

You don’t sing with others. You hardly sing on your own. People never appreciated it when you were younger, so you find little reason for them to do so now. Except this redhead has barged into your shower, and demanded it, and now she’s singing with you. And you sound amazing together. Not just _good_ , but _amazing_. Your voices blend perfectly, accentuated by the acoustics of the shower cubicle; your deeper, darker tones and harmonies work well with her crisp and soaring high notes. (You think you catch her looking down at your lips a few times, but that’s probably you imagining it as you’re doing to her. So there’s really no point in thinking about it.)

Afterwards, when the reverberations die down, you’re both left looking at each other with accomplishment and awe in your eyes. Then reality comes crashing in – you’re both nude, you still need to shower, and the redhead has a boyfriend showering with her. She leaves and you stand stock still for a moment, wondering if this really is how life has turned out for you.

You can breathe a little easier now.

Your dad has promised to help you move to LA if you join a club. That looked unlikely. Until now.

 

.

 

You’re somewhat settled into life at Barden when you perform with the Bellas for the first time. You all know it: it’s awful. It’s the Sigma Beta Theta’s Fall Mixer and you make a mockery of yourselves (or, in Aubrey or Chloe’s terms, “Put the Bellas’ good name to shame”). Halfway through it, you give up with the dance moves even though you know them, and as a group you haven’t got quite the hang of the rhythm of the song.

It’s a crap song, anyway. All of the songs they sing are pre-21st Century pieces, because Aubrey will have an aneurysm if she dares to stray from the line.

Still, you can’t help but feel a bit bad about it. All of these girls actually _want_ to be there, and this clearly means a lot to the two sophomores. Either way, Aubrey could definitely lighten up when it comes to this, they've got some decent singers.

The mood is certainly not lightened up by the revelation that Chloe has nodes – vocal nodules, whatever. Most of you don’t know what the hell they are or why they matter so much, but clearly the redhead is distraught, so you feel sympathetic for her. You figure that she should get that checked out, though; her health and her future for singing is more important than some crappy a cappella competition in a few months, right?

The girls themselves aren’t too bad, you've decided. Amongst others, there’s Aubrey – the exception, of course – who captains the group; Fat Amy, the crazy Tasmanian you met at the Deaf Jews stall; Stacie, the tall, sex-driven aspiring biochemist; Cynthia Rose, the girl with pink hair and a wicked voice; Lilly, the small girl who speaks way too quietly for anyone to hear her; Jessica and Ashley, who you all get mixed up a lot – and you stopped listening after that.

And, of course, there’s Chloe, the bubbly redhead with the captivating blue eyes. So far, you haven’t done anything embarrassing in front of her, but you know that moment is just waiting to happen. It doesn't help that she’s hell-bent on invading your personal space at every waking moment; she gives you extra help in the choreography, she gives everyone hugs for the tiniest things (even you can’t escape them), and she’ll clutch your hands just to get your attention.

(It works. Really well. You brush it off by disentangling your limbs from hers with something akin to discomfort on your face. But she obviously ignores that.)

Despite all of that, you still want to get out of there. If it wasn't for the warmth you receive from the other girls and your deal with your dad, you’d drop out of there faster than you could put your headphones around your ears. Classes are so tedious you often don’t go to them, and Aubrey makes practising a living hell. There’s a strong mutual dislike for each other, which is heightened when she accuses you of having a “toner” for Jesse, your new personal puppy dog. You snort at that and shoot back some lewd comment. You do _not_ have a toner for Jesse, and never will.

Jesse has a toner for you. You’re completely aware of this. He’s the guy who works alongside you, stacking CDs in the radio station. And he’s not a bad person, but he’s persistent and annoying and he likes movies way too much. You feel like you never stop reminding him of your total apathy towards anything romantic right now, but he never gets it. He insists on giving you a “moviecation” (ground-breaking combination of words there), and snuggling up to you when he believes you’re not paying attention.

That makes you uncomfortable. You just want to have a shot at actually having a steadfast friend for a year. It’s ridiculous that he hasn't got the idea yet, but you can’t exactly get rid of him.

You tell your mother this.

“He sounds lovely, honey!” is her immediate reply, and the thought of hanging up flashes through your mind. “Why don’t you take a chance on him? He could do you a world of good.”

You think she can _hear_ you cringe through the phone. “Mom, no! God, no. He’s just… I don’t see him that way.”

“Why not? Have you got your eye on someone else?”

Your mother means well, of course, but this is too much. You imagine the songs in your latest mix playing through your head and shut your eyes as it helps to calm you down. You’re getting better at this, and you’re proud of it.

The suffocation is always there, always ready to strike, but you know how to keep it at bay. (You think.)

“No, definitely not. There’s nothing going on for me right now. I just want to keep my head down and get out of here.”

She’s silent, contemplating. “…Are you sure? Because I know you, Beca. When you like someone, you suffer in silence instead of going out there. If you do have your eye on someone, you can always tell me. I want to know everything about them.”

She laughs, but you don’t. This is too much. It hits too close to home and you really, _really_ don’t want to think about dating at this moment. Too much is going wrong in your life to even begin thinking about that. “Hey, Mom, I’m sorry, I've got to go. Chloe’s at the door, she’s going to take me to a… Bella meeting.”

“Oh, okay! Tell her I said hi! Love you!”

“Will do, love you too.”

You end the phone call and release your breath. You lied to her; Chloe is currently sitting a test. (You only know this because she was panicking about it in the group chat on Facebook, something you only use to talk to the Bellas.) But things are getting too much for you right now.

Staying at Barden. (If you were given the chance to leave without breaking off your father’s part of the deal, you _definitely_ would.) Jesse. The stress from the Bellas. Your mom’s prying. Your dad and his new family being so close.

You’re not supposed to be here. You are an outcast, forced here with no way to get out.

You didn't expect it to happen now, but it’s all too much and the toxins are settling in your lungs again.

 

.

 

When you've had your first (and hopefully last) taste of prison, something strange happens.

It’s something uncharacteristic of you. It’s something that sets things in motion.

You open up.

You thought things would have quietened down after you got through to the semi-finals in second place. As it happens, you were wrong – totally wrong. If anything, Aubrey has _increased_ her a cappella frenzy, and there isn’t anything you can do about it. The regionals competition showed that you've all improved massively, but it’s not enough for the captain. Nothing is ever enough for Aubrey, except winning, and you’re pretty sure sticking to the status quo isn’t going to cut it.

The regionals also brought an unwanted amount of time in prison, thanks to the Tonehangers’ insistence on getting their asses kicked and Fat Amy’s inability to stop hitting people. A broken trophy flung through a glass window later, and you were the one left to pick up the pieces. Your dad had bailed you out – on what seems to be the price of your deal – after Jesse’s call, but you went straight to your room to find the Bellas waiting for you. There, you and Chloe (yes, Chloe actually stood up against Aubrey for once) proposed to use some of your mixes. Of course, you were shot down, but at least you tried.

What you took away from that night wasn't the lesson learned about defacing property, or that Aubrey was unstoppable – it was that the girls care for you. Particularly, Chloe. Cynthia Rose let it slip that night that it was Chloe who was insistent on staying in your dorm room, even though Jesse jumped to be your savior and called your dad to bail you out.

You've got past fumbling every time she looks at you, but that’s definitely not to say she doesn't have an effect on you.

But why Chloe? She’s just Chloe. The redhead has no concept of personal space, and it’s annoying.

But, at the same time… you think she’s lovely. Always bubbly, always patient and unassuming. She and Aubrey have done a lot of work just to get the Bellas to regionals standard, and you haven’t heard Chloe complain about it once.

Maybe you’re just out of touch with people being kind to you. Nothing to worry about.

Your friends all file out of your room after Aubrey’s little pep talk – but Chloe sticks around, loitering in the doorway. Kimmy Jin, who stormed off as soon as you arrived, is still not back yet, so it’s just you two. You realize the redhead probably wants something.

“Hey,” you say, awkward smile to go with it. Well, you were never excellent at the social side of things.

She gives you a small, sweet smile in return. “Hey. I just wanted to ask you something.”

You arch an eyebrow in response, giving her a green light.

“Can I listen to your mixes?”

That startles you. Okay, so maybe you were going to show them to the whole group five minutes ago, but there’s only one you’re willing to share with them. Plus, it’s better if you disguise your nervousness behind the Bellas’ desperate need for a makeover. Now, with it just being Chloe and you in the room… it feels a whole lot more personal.

Your friend notices your hesitation and feels obliged to say, “It’s okay if you don’t want me to, Becs. I just thought all of that was awesome.”

“Awesome?”

“Aca-awesome,” she winks, and you laugh despite yourself.

“Thanks, I guess. You can – you can listen to a few if you want,” you respond after taking a deep breath. You shuffle over to your computer and open up your most current mix, not one you’d normally show to others.

Chloe nods and struts over to your computer, giving you an encouraging smile. You hand your beloved headphones over to her and she secures them over her head.

You pause for a few moments. You’re really doing this? You’re showing Chloe this side of yourself?

Truth be told, you can never find it in you to refuse her. If she wants you to do anything, you’ll probably do it.

So you press play.

It’s a mashup of two songs: B.o.B featuring Hayley Williams – Airplanes, and MGMT – Kids. (Neither are songs you particularly like listening to, but sometimes you have to sacrifice a lot for your music.) The chords and the voices – the dark tones of Hayley Williams’ voice and the more jovial vocals from MGMT – are wrapped up in heavy bass and drum beats, but it doesn’t sound too bad. It definitely needs work though.

These thoughts all float around in your mind – interspersed with _What if she doesn’t like it_ and _I don’t think I can breathe_ – while she listens. You keep your eyes trained on her face; her mouth, her cheeks, her eyes. You’re dying to know what she thinks of it. Your inability to read body language hinders you, so you’re left clueless and expectant. And you think you might die from the waiting.

Then she throws a dazzling beam your way, and you breathe out.

“That was _amazing_ , Becs!” she grins, handing you back your headphones. “I never knew you did all of this. You’re so talented!” She giggles, and – unsurprisingly – pulls you into a hug, which knocks the wind out of you.

A part of you automatically wants to squirm away from her, to detach yourself and run from the physical affection. But the rest of you actually doesn’t mind Chloe’s hugs, so you let yourself get squashed while her toned, muscled arms wrap around you.

“Thanks, Chlo,” you manage to wheeze.

“Do you have more?” she wonders innocently.

And that – that doesn’t send alarm bells ringing through your head at all. When it should. So she spends a few more hours in your room, bobbing her head whenever your mixes are on and giving you eager thumbs up.

You’ve opened up to her. It’s a weird feeling.

But the chains on your neck have released their grip on you slightly and it’s not uncomfortable at all now.

 

.

 

Chloe has joined you for a study night when you realise that asphyxiation can come in many forms.

They are linked; they splinter off each other just to join again, like the cracks of a smashed window. They adopt names that carry with them a sense of dread.

The physical terror of choking.

(You’re 1 and you don’t like this, you can’t breathe, your food is lodged in your throat and you can’t breathe.)

(You’re 8 and the serial killer’s picture is on the screen. She shows no remorse and you don’t feel anything but contempt for a person like that.)

(You’re 10 and the world falls apart with every syllable that streams out of your parents’ mouths.)

(You’re 16 and you can’t believe your dad is thick enough to believe that you’ll welcome his visits with open arms.)

The unknown.

(You’re 17 and you’ve now realised that there are people out there who would love to see you fall just because of who you love.)

Being trapped.

(You’re 18 and you don’t belong in Barden, and you don’t belong in the Bellas where your ideas and voice aren’t welcome.)

And now – responsibility.

Your redhead friend is curled up on the corner of her bed, chewing on the end of her pen as she flicks through her Russian Literature book (you think she’s insane for choosing that), and you’ve given up the idea of reading this book on Psychology tonight. That’s why you’re absent-mindedly flicking through your phone when you receive a text.

It’s from your mom. You open it, not expecting much.

_Birthgiver (20:29): Beca, how would u feel abt hvin a little siblng???_

(Your mom is embarrassing when it comes to texting. Nobody has sent texts like that since the 90s – but the woman who brought you to life clearly hasn’t got that memo yet.)

The idea of being a big sister again puts the fear of God through you, but you push through that for now. You reply quickly, hands shaking.

_Baby Becs (20:29): You’re pregnant??_

_Birthgiver (20:30): No, silly. Leo + I r thinking of adpting!_

Adoption? Wow. That’s still better than a hugely hormonal mother. But any idea of looking like a responsible sister for the child is still petrifying. You know Leo (your mother’s long-term boyfriend, he’s not so bad) and your mom will be good parents (you’ve never seen your mom so chilled and ready to start a family again), but the thought of it still freaks you out.

Your never see your half-brother, Nick, so you never get involved with all that sibling stuff. You’re fairly certain he’s going to grow up hating you, if Sheila has anything to do with it. But the difference here is that you see you’ve _lived_ with your mom and Leo, so you’re going to be seeing this kid a lot more. And – honestly? You have no idea how to act around them. You’re not a big fan of social interaction, and never really have been – so talking to them is not going to come naturally to you.

But you can’t reply with the words _Actually, mom, I feel like I’m going to scar your child forever with my awkwardness, so I’m not really down for talking about this_ so you send her another text and don’t check your phone afterwards.

_Baby Becs (20:31): Sounds great, you and Leo are going to be good parents._

That’s all she’s getting from you. You spend a good half-hour just staring into space, images of what could go wrong flipping through your head. How old will the kid be? Just young enough to not be too much to handle, or at the annoying stage already? What will they be like?

It’s a lot to take in, a hell of a lot.

Then somehow you’re grounded, all of a sudden. You feel slight pressure on your leg and you see Chloe’s perfectly manicured hand there, bringing you back to reality.

“Earth to Beca?” she murmurs, a small lopsided smile showing. Her book’s on her lap and she’s staring at you intently with the waves of calm in her eyes. “You looked like you were a million miles away.”

“S’okay,” you sigh. “Just thinking.”

“Psychology finally getting through to you?” You make a face at her and she giggles. (You’ve found that that’s a thing – she’s a giggler, and you’ve never known anyone like that.) “Thought not.”

“Hell will have frozen over by the time I consider doing that.”

She laughs again – you like how she clicks with your dry humour; few do, and you were surprised when the redhead showed herself to be one of those – and she shifts so she’s closer to you. In fact, she rests her head on your shoulder.

Jesse tried to do that once. It was a joke, you know it was, but you flipped out all the same and he followed you around with a wounded puppy look for the rest of the day. As an apology, you forced yourself to sit through the first Star Wars movie with him. (You didn’t stop yourself from uttering bored comments, though. You figured he should have been content enough with the fact that you _actually suggested_ a movie night.)

With Chloe, it’s different. Her dogged determination to ignore your personal space seems to be getting through, because you’re aware you don’t mind the feeling of her skin pressed onto your shoulder, her red curls swimming down your back. Sometimes her breath tickles your neck, and that makes you squirm, but she picks up on that and lifts her head up immediately – so it never becomes a problem.

It’s strange, you think, how you let Chloe do that. But her intentions were never for her sole benefit. She does it because she’s intrinsically a close and personal sort of friend – but she knows how it can help. But even Beca Mitchell, the infamous awkward alt girl, can’t help but thaw when she wraps her arms around you and nuzzles your neck, muttering about how she likes being your friend.

She knows how you work – what actions are best suited to you. She knows when to cradle you and when to stop. And yes, it might have taken a few months of getting used to the unwelcome touches so she could figure you out, but now it’s just soft and comforting and you like it more than you should.

You definitely like it more than you should. But you try not to think about that. That makes things messy and awkward and you _like_ having a female friend you’re close to. You like that comradery, the ease of it.

Though that may just be Chloe.

“So… you’re not thinking about work then,” she says against your neck, and you can’t help but feel soothed by her saccharine voice. “So what _were_ you thinking about? Seemed pretty important.”

“I thought you were reading, Chloe.”

“Have you _looked_ at that book? It’s not light reading, Becs,” she grins. “Besides, I’d much rather spend my time being _with_ you than being _near_ you.”

“You’re the one who suggested this,” you lightly remind her, punching her leg lightly.

“I was banking on you being normal and refusing to study, like usual.” You can hear the playfulness in her tone, and you catch yourself smirking.

“I _am_ behind on my classes, though. Really behind. And my dad’s going to kick my ass when he talks to my professors, so…”

Chloe nuzzles her head further into your neck, and you involuntarily shiver.

“That’s not enough for you to stay studying for the whole night, is it?” she beams, lifting her head so she can look at you properly. “How long were you not-thinking about Psyche?”

The ease that the conversation brought is gone, and now you’re vulnerable. “I don’t know. Didn’t really count the minutes.”

She pouts and assures you earnestly, “I’m here if you want to talk about it, Becs.”

You look back at her, taking in the sight before you.

Chloe is one of the naturally gorgeous girls. Girly, round face, flowing red hair that looks great no matter what state she’s in. Big, beautiful eyes, a smile always showing. You’re pretty sure she _knows_ she’s pretty, but she only flaunts it in front of college boys. It’s not her defining trait – no, never. Her enthusiasm, her plain love for people, is what sets her apart. She cares for anyone who comes into her line of sight (even the awful frat boys who’ve fucked her over countless times), and she has this huge amount of faith for her friends. You can’t fully believe that anyone’s like that – so _trusting_ of people despite everything – so every time, Chloe’s interest in you kind of bowls you over.

She genuinely wants to help the world, and you count yourself lucky she even set eyes on you in the first place.

So – of course you tell her. She just has the effect on you. (On everyone, you tell yourself, so you don’t start to feel special.)

“I’m going to be a sister,” you mumble finally. “Mom and Leo are going to adopt.”

“That’s amazing, Becs!” she squeals, and clutches your arm in excitement. “Younger siblings are just the _cutest_. I’d know, I’ve got three.”

Your eyebrows raise. “Chlo, this is _me_ we’re talking about.”

“Yeah, I know, duh,” the redhead grins. “I don’t doubt that you’re gonna be a great sister. Hey, you can show them your mixes! They’ll be singing Titanium before you know it!”

You groan and cover your face with your hands. “No, Chlo, I’m not showing them that song. It’s forever tainted as your lady jam.”

“You know you love it, Becs,” she winks, and your smile widens. “If it wasn’t for my lady jam, we wouldn’t know each other.”

She’s got you there. And you kind of like having the redhead around. The way her beam widens shows she knows this.

You spend the rest of your time talking about what music you _would_ show to your new half-sibling (“ _No_ , Chloe, I’m not letting them go anywhere near country music!”) and about Chloe’s own siblings – two little brothers and a 16 year old sister. You wonder how she survived her high school years with them about; on second thoughts, you think it was probably a doddle for her if they’re anything like your red-haired friend. From what you’ve heard of the Beales, the blind enthusiasm Chloe shows is hereditary.

You don’t realise what the time is until your phone buzzes to let you know it’s finally died on you. Your eyes flick over to the clock Kimmy Jin put on her bedside table, and you see it’s past 11.

“We talk a _lot_ , don’t we?” Chloe smiles, and there’s no trace of teasing in her words. But she starts moving up off the bed. “Aubrey will probably be wondering where I am…”

You panic. The air of comfort that has settled around is likely to evaporate with Chloe’s absence – _and_ the campus is really not that safe from 10pm onwards. You don’t want to look needy, though. Maybe you can walk her to her room.

“Are you sure you want to go out there?” you ask nervously. “You know what Barden’s like.”

“I haven’t needed to use my whistle yet.”

“It’s a long way to walk,” you try to reason, “and a – you know how people are around someone like you.”

“Are you insinuating what I think you’re insinuating?” she grins. You rush to defend yourself but you choke on your words. She laughs at that. “Relax, Becs. I’m flattered you appreciate my looks.” Then the smile falters as she worries her lips. “You’re right. Campus is kinda weird at this time. I’ll just stay here, then.”

You blink. You hadn’t really thought of anything else outside of Chloe walking back to her apartment alone. “Uhm—”

“You didn’t give me a choice, remember?” she interrupts, poking your side. “Your bed’s big enough for two. I know Kimmy Jin’s not going to like me sleeping on hers. I’ll just text Aubrey about tonight.”

The cogs in your brain process the event while she shoots the she-demon a text, and then she’s up and going through your clothes, looking for a shirt she can borrow as a substitute for nightclothes.

Okay. So. Chloe is going to be sleeping in your bed tonight. Totally platonic.

Surprisingly, it’s not as big of a problem as you expect you’ll make it out to be. Chloe just simply changes and snuggles up into bed with you, and it feels no different from the usual hugs she gives you. It fills you with a sense of warmth and relief – a kind that only comes with music.

That should unsettle you, but it just… doesn’t.

Chloe’s soft touches soothe your insides, making you feel content and warm and at home, and that’s the thought that carries you off to sleep.

When you wake up the next morning, light filtering in through the window, with Chloe’s arm draped over your waist, you think that you could get used to the feeling.

 

.

 

Chloe’s closeness has always been different for you. And you don’t really think about it, or even realize it. But something has had to start it off and _that_ thing is a particular Bellas rehearsal soon after Chloe slept in your bed that one night.

When you see Fat Amy and Cynthia Rose pointedly staring at the two of you and whispering conspiratorially, your brow furrows in confusion and you send them a few peeved glances. All you get in return are smirks.

Okay, so… that’s weird.

Aubrey claps her hands, trying to get everyone’s attention. In her tight, high-pitch voice, she announces that today’s rehearsal will involve mouth exercises – and the two Bellas that have puzzled the most today start cackling. (Actually cackling. These girls are insane.) Immediately, you’re put into pairs, and Chloe wraps her hand around yours before you can even start to think about who you want to go with.

When you auditioned, you hadn’t thought that a cappella would involve so much prep – but you were proved wrong. So, so wrong. Still, you’re glad the Bellas (bar Aubrey) are actually likeable people. Otherwise you’d never be caught dead practicing “mouth exercises” in front of people.

“Alright, Becs, know what to do?” the co-captain asks you both stand up and drag your chairs away from the centre of the room, watching as everyone copies. “We could go through the _ooh_ s for your part if you like.”

“Y-Yeah, sure.” Mostly, Chloe just suggests something for you to do and you go along with it.

So you take your position in the room and practice the mouth shapes and the melodies to go with it. The redhead encourages you to sing with the correct mouth shape and asks you to force the note out. She rests a hand on your diaphragm to make sure you’re using it as much as possible.

Heat spreads from the skin underneath her hand (technically underneath your shirt, but it’s enough to make your nerves react wildly), and your stomach coils ever so slightly. It throws you off, just a bit, but her bright blue eyes kindly encourage you to continue. There’s so much enthusiasm and patience in the soft seas her eyes encompass; you can feel the smile automatically lifting your lips. It breaks the shape your mouth is supposed to have, so you look away. Your cheeks redden instead.

Then where the co-captain’s hand was is now cold air, and she praises you contentedly before singing the part of her solo that corresponds with what you’re already singing. Her melody snakes around your harmonies, and you’re reminded of the infamous shower incident from ages ago. Except it’s an infinitely more tedious song and neither of you are naked.

When the two of you finish, she squeals, “That was great, Becs! You’re getting really good at this!” and she kisses you on the cheek. Then it’s like it never happened – she ploughs on to talk to Aubrey, who has been walking around like a predator stalking its food.

You can’t help but feel a bit flustered, despite the fact that Chloe does that a lot.

You hear Amy’s purposely loud muttering of, “Looks like we got a bit of a Bloe situation over there,” and you finally figure out what the hell Cynthia Rose’s and her problem is.

They think you’re hooking up. Oh.

You’re not. That’s – no, that’s really not happening. You know Chloe’s not straight (you’ve heard a few stories), but she wouldn’t consider you. Besides – you haven’t been thinking about that in the first place. Right?

You can see why they think this. Chloe is haphazardly touchy-feely with you. Pretty soon after she stayed over in your dorm room for the night, she developed a new habit that you couldn’t be bothered to rectify: she started holding your hand, and keeping it locked with hers for longer than usual.

Sometimes it’s necessary – to stop you blowing up on Aubrey (or vice versa), or to haul you out of bed in the morning after your impromptu sleepovers – but other times, she just does it because she knows you’re not going to complain. It happens on shared walks to classes, or not-very-majestic stumbles home after a night out. It’s an act of solidarity and support.

You don’t mind it. It’s a comfort as much as her hugs are. You secretly enjoy the fact that she does all of these actions – because it’s an anchor, grounding you when dark thoughts are swirling. Or just an anchor because you need the contact. (That’s a new thing, as well. You never thought you were one to crave contact with people – and once again, Chloe has broken through that barrier.)

The kisses on your cheeks are a relatively new thing, but you don’t mind that one, either. It replaces some of the hugs she gives you, and you prefer that because you don’t have to wrap yourself around anyone. You can just take it and blush.

You’d never let any other close friend kiss your cheek, so you’re good at receiving Chloe’s because you pin it down to her closeness around everyone. Everyone is immediately charmed by her presence; it’s hard to stay mad at her inability to acknowledge personal space. It’s just Chloe, being herself.

But Fat Amy’s and Cynthia Rose’s snickering sets something off in you. To them, the idea that the redhead might actually be _interested_ in you is plausible – and that sets off a whole set of alarm bells.

 _Is_ it possible? (You dismiss that thought as quickly as it came.) How would you react if it were?

Do you want it to be possible?

 

.

 

Chloe is sleeping over for the night when you find yourself unable to deny it any longer. You admit to yourself that your feelings for her may not be wholly… platonic.

Which is crazy. It’s the last thing you want to associate with a friend. Especially a best friend (something Chloe declared you two are a few weeks ago). It’s so crazy, you want to run as far away from the campus as possible, crappy pajamas be damned.

It’s _wrong_. You can’t have a crush on Chloe Beale. She’s… Chloe.

Except that’s exactly the reason why your feelings are like this. Chloe is all kinds of sweet; she’s open (to the point of vulnerability), patient, and manages to maintain her innocence until she wants to play dirty. Usually, whenever you see her – on campus or with the Bellas – she’s smiling like a kid who’s just been given their favorite lollipop. Other times, you can see she’s wounded (about her nodes, or something else), but she wears her battle scars with pride.

In short, she’s your opposite.

You kind of can’t help but fall for her. It’s scary.

You’re pretty sure you’ve had these sorts of feelings for a while – you definitely remember suddenly thinking about kissing her a fortnight ago – and you know what the catalyst that started it all off was: Fat Amy’s and Cynthia Rose’s suggestive giggling at practice ages ago. (Just _thinking_ about that makes your cheeks go hot and your hands stir restlessly from where they’re positioned.) So you can’t believe you’re only just realizing this. The signs have been there for a while.

Firstly – well, you’re not blind. You can identify a hot girl as well as the next person. And your ginger friend is gorgeous – _more_ than gorgeous, in fact. Great physique, bright flowing hair, alluring blue eyes, and a shapely, womanly face. You’ve known that she’s attractive ever since you spotted her at the start of the term, when she was handing fliers out with Aubrey.

Secondly (and it’s another revelation that shocks you), you’ve been unwittingly incorporating her into your mixes. Your conversations with her are so varied, but you always come back to music. And sometimes she’ll tell you about one of her favorite songs – her current favorite blasting from her radio, or an older song that’s stood the test of time. You’ll subconsciously make a note of it, and you’ll find them in your mixes. She’s made such an impact on you, you’ll even mix in melodies direct from her parts in the Bella practices on the times you add harmonies or extra files to your mix.

You’ve only done that for people you’ve majorly crushed on, so only a few people in your life. But you did that when you needed to get it all out – for Chloe, you hadn’t even known you were doing it. (And you have to admit your mixes sound a _lot_ happier, too.)

The final sign you really should’ve seen is probably the most obvious. Not even Jesse gets as physically close to you as Chloe does (no matter how hard he tries). So, yes, he’s your closest friend, but you still don’t do the platonic intimacy thing. Aside from your love interests and your mom (because, come on, she’s your _mother_ ), you can’t understand why people need or even want that unnecessary closeness. Usually, it’s just awkward. There’s no point.

Yet Chloe lives for physical closeness. Breathes it. This is the girl, of course, who barged into your freaking _shower_ and demanded that you sang with her, completely ignoring any personal boundaries or common decency. And of course the most touchy-feely person currently walking on the earth has to be the one to knock down your carefully assembled walls. Of course she has to be the one to grab or wrap an arm around your shoulder and make it seem like it’s the most normal thing in the world.

Of course she has to be the one to make you think that maybe, just maybe, physical contact isn’t quite as bad as you make it out to be. That sometimes needing that anchor is not a bad thing.

Only with her. Chloe’s the only person you can stand being pressed against you.

And now you know what sorts of ways you’d like that intimacy with her… well.

It’s quite the revelation.

All of this decides to show itself at the worst time. Okay, that’s not quite true – it’s not an intrinsically terrible situation, as it happens. (Although the rom-com movie Chlo subjected you to _was_ terrible, being in her presence definitely isn’t making you run for the hills.) But you’re just alone with your thoughts, and it’s driving you insane. Chloe is lying _right_ beside you, curled up against you and completely dead to the world. Her eyes are screwed shut as a dream plays behind her eyes, but the rest of her looks so at peace; her hair lazily fans out across the pillow – _your_ pillow, she stole both of them – and her lips are parted ever so slightly. Every so often, they press together and make little shapes as she mumbles silent words. It’s kind of reallycute. Even worse, she’s wearing your favorite pajama top and you swear it’s never looked as good as it does on her now.

This whole picture before you is just so Chloe. She’s just so Chloe. She doesn’t have any qualms about sleeping overnight now, because she knows you don’t mind her being there at all. She’s the only person in the world who can actually make you smile just by mumbling something while unconscious. If _that_ doesn’t show how whipped you are, then nothing will.

But all of this – all of these sappy urges to brush the hair out of her way, and count all of the freckles on her face – it’s just so wrong. Because Chloe Beale is your best friend, and Chloe Beale has a boyfriend (Tim? Tom? John? You don’t know and you don’t care – and as soon as she mentions his name, you’re filled with a deep unease and a stubborn belief that he’ll never treat your friend in the right way) – and Beca Mitchell doesn’t _do_ unrequited feelings. It’s one of the reasons why you shut people out in the first place.

But apparently your heart hasn’t got that memo yet, and it sucks because you know what’s coming. You’ll be flustered around her for a while; then the impossibility of your crush will drag you kicking and screaming back to reality and common sense. The chains will tighten around your throat, chafing against your skin more than ever, and you’ll have to live with the fact that you can’t breathe for a while. It always happens. And your off-kilter, redheaded friend is just another unsuspecting culprit.

This feels a bit different, though. You think about this while you wrap your arms around your knees and stare straight into the darkness, no hint of sleepiness in your furrowed brow. Chloe feels different. With your previous romantic interests, you didn’t feel any lighter. They quickened your heartbeat, sure, and made you a bit dizzy – but this is different. And you know why.

You don’t suffocate when she’s around you. Now you’re used to her general lack of personal boundaries, things are just so much easier around her. Your chest rises and falls, deep and slow, while your heartrate spikes as she brushes by you.

You can breathe easier around her. It’s not perfect; she doesn’t dispel everything, but it’s significant. That’s what it is. And God knows you’re trying to cling onto that feeling for as long as you can.

 

.

 

When the Bellas fail to advance to the finals, you feel like everything falls apart.

It’s weird. Honestly, you thought the Bellas were going to be the last thing to tear you apart like this – but it’s happened, and you can’t feel anything else but fury and regret and emptiness.

The fury swirls around you when you think of how you could’ve won – you could’ve won the whole fucking competition, for Pete’s sake – if Aubrey had just _listened_. If she hadn’t had her head stuck up her ass with all of her diatribe about upholding tradition, the Bellas would’ve had a chance. But no, she refused to look at you, she refused to look past her vehement dislike for all things Beca Mitchell, and she dragged the whole group down with her.

You weren’t the only one who knew the group needed a makeover. Chloe tried to get through to her, more times than you thought she would, all to no avail. Some of the other girls suggested it a few times, too, but it fell on deaf ears. The she-demon was clutching onto what she knew, being too stuck in her ways to ever consider anything different as anything other than terrible.

And, you think, Pukegate should’ve allowed her to try new things. She should’ve wanted to do something – anything – to secure a place in the final. Anybody else would’ve gone for something bold and exciting, instead of exhausting that stupid Ace of Base song and the other tedious pieces from before the 21st century. But, clearly, not Posen. Apparently it made her even more insufferable.

The regret sinks your heart when you admit to yourself that – no, it wasn’t just _her_ fault. Okay, the blame is mostly pinned on Aubrey’s shoulders, but _you_ didn’t warn the girls when you should have. _You_ weren’t thinking clearly. You were on a bit of a high after Luke played your mashup on the radio station – but that’s not an excuse.

The words you’d spat at the Bellas before you quit – “If this is what I get for trying…” – are partially true. The performance wasn’t even that _bad_ – sure, it caused Aubrey to miss a line but she continued afterwards, and Fat Amy said it was only a little bit of a surprise – and they were never going to beat the Michael Jackson rendition. But you should have told the group. They could’ve been prepared for it. Then you wouldn’t have bombed as harshly as you did.

If this is what you get for trying, then you never should have found the Bellas in the first place. Or maybe you didn’t try hard enough.

But the worst thing is the emptiness.

It’s a paradox of sorts. It’s emptiness, it’s aching all over, but you feel so acutely it kind of doesn’t make sense to label it as a _lack_ of something. It rests heavily on your bones, sloshing around in your gut and in your thoughts and your lungs – and oh, God, your _lungs_.

It’s like going back to when you were 10. You’re helpless. Your hands are scrambling for any semblance of comfort, any sign that everything will be okay. All the while, the poison seeps into crevice of your body, constricting your airways and barely allowing you to choke out your words. Everything is going wrong – hell, you’re even going to classes, that’s how wrong this is – and you feel so small again. Your mixes do what they can to help, but it’s not like last time, or the times before, or the first time you needed them. They can only do so much. Music was your savior when your parents were screaming down the house; now music is part of the problem.

Besides, your mixes remind you of Chloe, and how they’ve gone from sounding upbeat to sounding capable of summoning storm clouds just by being played.

It shouldn’t be like this.

Chloe is AWOL, as is everyone else. You haven’t seen Aubrey since the semi-finals – and thank God for that, you’d probably be hanging limply somewhere on campus, murdered by Aubrey’s wrath – and sometimes you bumped into the other Bellas and awkwardly ran off before break started. Stacie and Fat Amy tried to keep in contact with you more than the others, but you’ve been ignoring everyone’s messages. You quit. That’s that. You don’t belong with them, you obviously never have, so what’s the point in staying friends with them?

None. Even though it hurts – you have to admit, you’ve grown fond of those girls, for all of their insanity – you won’t talk to them.

It hurts most that you’re not in contact with Chloe. That’s when your lungs really start screaming for air they’re not getting.

Unsurprisingly, your crush never went away. You weren’t dragged back to reality. You didn’t get over her. While the redhead was prancing about, her excitement for the semi-finals leeching into everyone’s mindsets, you found it harder and harder to let go of her. You embarrassed yourself no end of times, felt your hands go sweaty when she so much as looked your way. But when that subsided, you expected your feelings to fade too.

Except they didn’t. They lodged themselves in your heart, setting up camp and getting comfortable while your head spun with the possibility of what it meant. You couldn’t hear the metal chains rattling in anticipation, you couldn’t feel rationality come back to you as you’d have expected. And you didn’t like it, because it made you vulnerable and totally dependent on someone who didn’t even know what she was doing.

And then the semi-finals had to happen and mess everything up. Because of that, because of Aubrey’s inability to stray from the status quo and your impulsiveness, you aren’t talking to her. You aren’t answering her messages, your interactions with her on campus are stilted and oh so painful – and you want to go back to how it was. God, you’d do anything to stop the awkwardness.

Except go back to the Bellas. You don’t feel like you deserve to be there.

Her messages have been coming through every day; they range from stuff like _I heard Titanium in the coffee shop today, it made me think of you :)_ , _I still think Bulletproof was a good idea_ and _I miss you_. (That last one makes your heart tighten in your chest.) You read them all, but you don’t reply. You can’t reply.

You want to get out of here, out of Barden. Your initial fears about this place have come true, and you’re disappointed because, for a while, it felt like you proved yourself wrong.

This emptiness is a colleague to the panic. This emptiness is best friends with the toxins in your lungs and your limbs and your _everywhere_. You’re trying to slog through it – not to mention slog through your tests and exams – but you don’t think you can take much more of this.

So you do what you have to do. You turn to your parents.

Your mom first. She’s miles and miles away right now, and probably looking after your new little sister (Sophia, they called her. She has huge eyes and a mischievous mind), but you need someone to talk to right now. Your usual first choice is the redhead, and she’s unavailable.

Your mom picks up instantly. She can hear your ragged breaths through the phone.

“Oh, my darling, are you okay?”

“Never better.” Your response is so typically you. But everything else feels skewered and out of place.

“No, that’s not true. You’re panicking. Take deep breaths, Beca. And tell me when you’re ready.”

She sounds exhausted, on the edge of sleep, but she’s staying awake for you. As you close your eyes firmly shut and run a mix through your mind (one that _wasn’t_ influenced by Chloe’s feather-light touch), you can hear your mother’s conversation with Leo about who’s on the phone and why. You can hear the concern in his voice, and that’s touching, but you can’t deliberate on it because you can’t breathe, you can’t breathe, you hate this place and you can’t breathe.

“Beca, sweetie, I’m right here.”

It helps. But only slightly. You envision being in her embrace when you were younger, so full of confusion and fury but also a keen longing to be comforted. And that helps, too, but the one thing that gets you breathing again is when you think about what Chloe would do if she were here.

“It’s okay, Becs,” she’d say, crawling over to you with a small but reassuring smile on her face. “You’re going to be aca-awesome, okay? You’re unstoppable. I’m so proud of you.” Her hand would be on your shoulder, or maybe your knee, before she pulled you into a long hug. And then her fingers would dance along your arms as she tried to make your breathing match her own pace.

It’s comforting. It hurts – boy, does it hurt – but you have to work with what you’ve got, and if a memory is all you have, then you’ll take it.

“Okay,” is all you whisper, and your mom breathes out.

“You ready to talk? I’ve got all night if you need it,” she assures you.

And – the words just come tumbling out of your lips. All of them. About the semi-finals, about Jesse, about Chloe.

(You’re 17 and you feel like you’re going to choke again but your mom is there to cradle you and everything’s a little bit better. She’s there to support you. You’re not alone.)

You fill her in on what’s happening regularly, but you haven’t phoned her since the semi-finals. And she was patient, thankfully, but you always knew that she was eager to hear how you’d done. Now she knows of what fate awaited you, she’s supportive. She shares the same viewpoint as you – but without the animosity for the Bella captain – and informs you that there’s always a second chance. She’s seen it herself, she speaks from experience, and it reassures you. But you know you can’t go back to the Bellas now.

“I wasn’t talking about the Bellas, sweetie,” she says, surprising you.

“Then what _are_ you talking about? About _Jesse?_ ”

You laugh. Jesse reacted badly to _your_ bad reaction, and you’ve tried to patch up things with him, but he’s not answering any messages either. (God, you can’t even keep your friendship with him. The universe must really despise you.)

Yet your mom laughs with you – much to your surprise; she was the one who suggested you get together, after all. “No, I know that’s a no-go area. I mean with Chloe.”

Your movements still. It takes a few tries for your dry mouth to get even one word out. “W-What?”

“You deserve a second chance with her, Beca. It sounds like you two were really close, you know. There definitely is some potential between you two to get together, and you’re going to be sorry if you don’t take this up.”

You honestly can’t believe your ears right now. “Mom, no, i-it – she doesn’t think that way.”

“How can you be sure of that?” she responds immediately, her voice strong and sure now she believes in what she’s saying. “Beca, you can’t even tell yourself that you love her. How can you know what Chloe’s feeling? Believe me, honey, from what I’ve heard about her, she’s hooked on you.”

No, no, no, no. You didn’t phone her for this. “You don’t know Chlo like I do.”

“I’ve got a pretty good idea of what she’s like. She’s a regular topic of conversation for you.”

Your cheeks flush at an embarrassingly quick rate. “Mom, I’m not in love with her.”

“I didn’t say that. There’s a big chance for that. But you love her, that much I can tell. So you should really talk to her again. It’s cutting you up inside, sweetie, and I can’t stand to hear you like this.”

The phone conversation ends with you promising to patch things up with the Bellas, especially Chloe, but you make no move towards them for the days after the phone call. No, your head is completely preoccupied by your mother’s words.

You love Chloe. You’re not _in_ love, per se, but you’re pretty close. You know now that your mom’s words are true, because it feels like there’s still room to fall. You just need a push.

You don’t doubt for a second that reconnecting with Chloe would give you that push, but you really fucking miss everyone, and you promised that you’d at least talk to the redhead.

You’re thinking about this when you talk to your dad about the Barden Bellas.

He’s such a hypocrite – talking about quitting being the easy way out, like he can say that sort of stuff – but you don’t get as riled up as you would’ve done two years ago. Your old man needs to finish his sentence before he allows you to talk to him without complaining, anyway. So you wait, patiently, to jump in and call him out with as much as patience as you can muster. And he speaks some shit about trying to make it work (right, like continuing to cheat was really “trying to make it work”), so you fall back on taking his words with a pinch of salt.

But your mom’s words come back to you, and you just feel helpless and lonely again, and you need to reach out to someone. Just to get some guidance.

You’ve steered off the road and you’re asking directions from your father, of all people. The semi-finals really did do damage to your life. But you’re left with a conundrum, thanks to Chloe texting you that the Bellas are back in the competition. (Apparently that little guy from the Footnotes isn’t even in college. Moron.)

This is a chance to go back and try and make things right again. Do you take it? Is it the right opportunity?

It kind of pains you to get the words out, but you do. He’s still your dad, as much as you wish he wasn’t sometimes.

“What do I do?”

“Well, that’s up to you.”

And – you realize later that night – it is. This year’s events have happened because of your actions. Chloe may have jumped into your shower, but you could’ve bailed on going to auditions anyway. Yet you didn’t. You could’ve refused any interaction with Jesse, yet you talked to him. You could’ve stayed with the status quo, not sung Bulletproof in the semi-finals, yet you sang anyway. So what happens now is your choice and your choice only. You’ve already received as much support as you’re going to get, so there’s no one to lean on but yourself now. Which is sort of what you always aspired to do in the first place.

Now you’re here, it feels a bit shitty. You’ve got your taste of reassurance, of receiving comfort from other people. You miss that taste of honey, and you’ve discovered that shutting people out isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.

It’s such a cliché, but it’s true: the power really is in your hands. You can continue to brood forever, like your teen self used to do, or you can loosen the noose with your own two hands.

It’ll probably wind you, when you apologize, but you know you have to do it. You’ve got to give yourself a shot at a happy ending, even if you end up with a bitter goodbye.

 

.

 

You’re 18 and you’ve found that, sometimes, people are worth opening yourself up to.

You wouldn’t have said this at the start of the year. You would’ve sneered at that, quipped a sarcastic comment, and stormed off with your heavy boots clunking down on the sidewalk. But you feel like a different person now – you feel lighter, happier, even if only slightly.

Suffice to say that things have changed for the better since you returned to the Bellas.

It wasn’t an easy decision, by any stretch of the imagination. But your dad _was_ right – quitting is the easy way out. And you owed it to these girls to at least give an apology a shot. So when you walked to the Bellas practice, you were hoping for the best and expecting the worst.

You weren’t expecting to see Fat Amy trying to hold back Chloe and Aubrey from taking the pitch pipe, or the other girls partaking in the chaos – or Lilly playing in Aubrey’s vomit – but you can’t really put anything past these girls.

Your breath had caught at the sight of the redhead, blue eyes blazing now she’d finally stood up for herself, but you swallowed that down and put an end to all the madness.

And – somehow – it worked. You made the Bellas do a long-overdue version of an ice breaker, just to get to know each other better, and you all felt like you bonded more as a group because of it. (Chloe’s decision to remove her nodes shocked you all, but sent a pang of regret shooting through you because she would’ve told you, quite confidently, in any other circumstance.) And when Aubrey tried to hand over the pitch pipe over to you (it landed in the pile of vomit, definitely not your best moment), you felt the pride swell up in you. A quick glance over to the red-haired co-captain strengthened it; in her eyes was total encouragement. You think that was what spurred you on, on a level similar to being handed the reins, to take them down to the pool and try out a mashup.

And, with an easy smile on your face, you know it worked wonders. The mashup – an effortless mix of Just The Way You Are by Bruno Mars and Just A Dream by Nelly (you can’t help but hear the accuracy in the lyrics) – reverberated through your lungs and buzzed in your brain pleasantly. And just like that, the Bellas found their sound again.

So everyone in the group has thrown their hearts into making this the best Finals performance ever. The responsibility rests mainly on Chloe and you, however; you have to find the right songs for the girls, and Chloe has to work her magic to make sure every movement fits. And you don’t doubt she can – she commands the world of dance like she can hold your attention just by looking at you – but she’s depending on you, too.

Chloe has to work with arm lifts and primary positions and partner movements; you have to find not only the perfect songs to wow the judges, but the perfect songs to bring out the best in the Bellas as well. You’re already sure of what song you _definitely_ want to put in – Don’t You (Forget About Me) by Simple Minds, because nothing says “I’m sorry” more to you than a section of the performance dedicated to one the recipient’s favorite soundtracks – but the rest is a hazy cloud of chord progressions and mismatched ideas. For the most part.

That’s why Chloe and you are in her room, working through what you want to do for the Finals performance. Aubrey is out, probably securing her job title with her dad’s firm or roasting an unfortunate Treble on a spit roast, so the bedroom is mercifully free of the blonde’s directions. You know you’re both going to have to present your works in progress to her tomorrow, but you’re glad of her absence right now. Although she’s kept her general contempt for you on a leash, she’d be another distraction you don’t want around.

Currently, you have two distractions – your worry, a deep-set panic gnawing away at your confidence and asking if you’re _really_ cut out for this, and the red-headed co-captain you can’t seem to divert your eyes away from. It’s easier to stare at her over the top of your laptop, and it helps that she’s completely immersed in the moves she’s scribbling down into her notebook, but you still feel guilty. She’s your _best friend_. You’ve had this conversation with yourself countless times.

You can’t deny how relieved you were to see that she forgave you. In true Chloe style, she forgave you pretty much instantly (and you think to yourself that you’ll never deserve such a thoughtful human being), and went right back to pouncing on you and winding you with her hugs. You don’t think you’ve ever felt as grateful to be hugged. And she’s still the same redhead as she was before – even if she _is_ a bit quieter, thanks to her surgery. You’ve been keeping a careful eye on her, thanks to that; you’re certain that nothing’s going to happen (except for her gaining a _very_ useful ability to hit notes most girls can only ever dream of), but you just want to be sure. It must have been a difficult decision to go through with it.

She must’ve really thought that that was the end of the Bellas for her. That she didn’t have anything to aspire for with her singing now; that it wouldn’t make much of a difference if she went through with the surgery or not.

It sucks that you made her go through that.

But, anyway. Now isn’t the time for thinking about the past. Now, you tell yourself, is the time for creating a mix, and _not_ staring at the girl you’re helplessly whipped for.

“Becs?” Chloe’s voice rings across the quiet room, and you fearfully return her gaze.

Jeez, it’s like the first time. The way her eyes just cut something loose in you.

(You’re 18 and she’s just locked your gaze onto hers and though you’d do anything to get the hands painted with the words _Barden University_ off of your neck, her wide blue eyes soothe and reassure you and already your breathing is a bit more controlled.)

“Yep?” you respond, mouth already drying out, cheeks already flaring with embarrassment.

“You okay there? You seemed a bit lost.”

Chloe is always, _always_ so caring, and it makes you smile. (The amount of smiles Chloe Beale has forced out of you against your better judgement is truly alarming.) “Yeah, just – it’s a big thing, you know?” You scrape your hair back with your hand, suddenly realizing how stuck you actually are. With _both_ of your distractions. You’re not entirely certain which one you were talking about just then.

“Aw, Beca,” she pouts, and proceeds to fling her notebook out of the way. And she crawls over to you, plopping herself right next to you on the bed. You have to peer down at your lap while she does it; it’s a view you’re not likely to forget. But there’s nothing sexual about it, nothing predatory – Chloe is just being there for you, like she always is. Perhaps that resonates inside you more than the image before you. “You can do this, you know that, right?”

You shrug. “I’ve just – I’ve got to get everything done as soon as possible, and I don’t know if I can even get the right parts for the right people—”

She honest-to-God puts a finger on your lips, which stills the words in your throat and forces them out as a few strangled noises. “Beca, you’re being silly. You’re the badass DJ of Barden; you can _do_ this!”

Your eyes flicker from her finger to her face again, and you gulp. She’s so close to you. You can smell the vanilla shampoo she uses. It’s fairly intoxicating.

“Aubrey is trusting you with this. The Bellas are right behind you, we’ve all got your back. And it doesn’t matter if we win with this or not – because _I_ will know that we’ll have absolutely smashed it anyway.” She wraps her arms around you (freeing your mouth of her finger), pulling you closer and pressing her side against you. Nuzzling her head into your neck, soothing the friction burns from the chains that have settled there for so long, she adds, “We’ve got this. I know we’re going to win this, and you’re the one who’s taking us there. You’re amazing, Becs, I’ve always thought it. This is just another way to prove it.”

Chloe sounds so convinced by her words. Like there’s such an important truth behind them that her voice trembles with the belief she’s got in them. Your breathing has actually stopped now – you’re so taken away by her conviction – and it’s _definitely_ not helped by the soft, glorious feeling of her lips pressing into the side of your cheek.

It’s exactly the thing you need, and the last thing you need. She seems to be good at giving you that.

Her head is raised now; she stares expectantly at you. You can’t reply at this second, though. You can only just stare back, feeling something shift between you.

You are only too happy to throw yourself into the deep end and get lost in the waters – you’re practically begging to do that – despite your walls you put up for a reason. You are only too happy to take a dive into that undulating fire, liking the way it sets you aflame; you’re itching to wrap the tendrils around your fingers to feel the burning. You welcome the idea of making that face split open with happiness, even if you put it down to trying to get even. Anything she wants you to do, you’ll do it.

Of course you’ll do it.

You’re sure this is what falling in love feels like.

 

.

 

Now you know you’re in love with Chloe Beale, things get complicated when you’re reminded that she’s allowed to date other people.

Things get complicated for you and you only, obviously.

For everyone else, the world keeps revolving as it always does. But for you, it’s harder than that. Every time she mentions another person she expresses an interest in, it feels like drops of acid are searing through your gut. It doesn’t happen very often at all, but it’s overwhelming when it does. You think you should be used to these surge of emotions by now, however.

God, you think you’ve felt everything that it’s possible to feel now. You’ve already had your heart wrenched out over losing her once, and you’ve had the ecstasy of falling in love ever since. And – of course – everything else, including the permanent pain of knowing she’s not yours, she’s not going to be yours. She’s probably someone else’s.

Cynthia Rose figured out the extent of your feelings for the redhead as soon as _you_ realized (clearly, her gaydar is spectacular – or you’re just terrible at hiding these sorts of emotions); she offers support in meaningful looks and sympathetic pats on your shoulder. You don’t know if they help all that much, but it’s nice to know someone knows what you’re going through. Sort of.

Tom is out of the picture now – he has been for a long while, you were there to comfort your best friend when she showed up unannounced at your door with tears streaming down her face – so that means you technically have a chance. (You knew he wasn’t good enough for her.) But that doesn’t change the fact that Chloe doesn’t see you that way, despite her touchy-feely nature. (And you’d entertained the idea that she was more touchy-feely with you, but dismissed it afterwards.) If she ever did, it’d be a freaking miracle.

That doesn’t stop you from getting ruffled by her flirtatious banter, something you two established ages ago. Chloe’s just that type of person, and you had no choice but to take it in your stride. Now, you’re reduced to a spluttering mess when she takes it further. If not for your general mental health and physical wellbeing, you’d rather not be so in love with your best friend on account of how many cups of coffees you’ve spilled because of this.

(Chloe just flirts more, of course. She loves getting those reactions out of you. And it’s just not _fair_. She gives you images you’ve been trying to avoid just so you can hold on to any illusion of sanity you can get.)

Yes, for all of her flirtatious banter, her lack of consideration for personal space, and her overly caring heart, you’re certain she’s not interested in you. You’re certain she’s interested in another girl, just to add salt to the wound. You try not to take it to heart, but it still weighs you down. How could it not?

You know she is, because you overhear her and Aubrey talking about it when you arrive at their room. You’re going over the final details for the choreography; Chloe, for some reason that you’re really not aware of, has insisted that you’re present. And you can’t refuse her, so you’re waiting outside their door, about to knock, when you notice that the door isn’t closed properly and you can hear parts of the co-captains’ conversation.

“I’m telling you, you need to address your toner for her,” Aubrey is saying, and the acid drops in your gut. Painful, searing. “You’re just – if you’re not careful, we won’t get this done in time.”

“No, Bree – everything’s fine, I promise!”

“Is it? You couldn’t stop talking about her five minutes ago! She’s not even that _interesting_ , Chloe!”

“Don’t be rude, Aubrey!”

Well, that doesn’t narrow down any candidates. You can’t imagine many people in or out of the a cappella world can be classed by Aubrey as _interesting_.

“I’m just saying,” the she-demon sighs, clearly not pursuing her rudeness anymore. “You need to go after her or move on. You decide.”

At that point, you knock on the door – and not three seconds later, the redhead opens it to you, all flustered but trying to obscure it with a too-perfect expression. You know Chloe enough to see when she’s trying to hide something from view. This doesn’t make you feel any better about the situation. Usually, the both of you don’t hide things from each other.

(You staunchly ignore the fact that you’re obscuring the fact that you’re in love with her. But that’s not information you want to disclose.)

“Hi, Becs! You… didn’t hear any of that, did you?”

So you swallow down any swirling, broken feelings and put on a smile for her. It’s better to feign innocence, anyway. “Hear what?”

“Oh, nothing! Come in; we have _so_ much to talk about!”

 

.

 

“I’m really in love with her, Mom,” you tell her miserably one night, when there’s nothing else for you to do but dwell. (The ginger co-captain has a Russian Lit test that you know she’s not prepared for, in any sense of the word.) It’s just under a week before Finals; the Bellas attended a party last night to celebrate perfecting your routine. You’re still nursing your hangover slightly, despite how late it is in the day. You remember everything, though – in short flashes, illuminated by the club lights.

You don’t need to tell your mother how in love with the redhead you are; she knows. When she was divorcing with your dad, she must’ve felt similarly. Now she’s over it, and you want to ask her for tips. There’s no point. You know how it ends.

“What’s brought this on, honey?” she asks. You hear a soft sniffling and a rustle of movement, and you think Sophia is with her.

“We – went out for a party last night. She was drunk, but she said some things.”

“What sort of things? Do you want to say?”

What you remember most is drunk Chloe snuggling up to you; drunk Chloe saying she’s staying on for another year to be with the Bellas; drunk Chloe whispering how utterly glad she is that you’re here; drunk Chloe telling you earnestly that you’re one of the best things that have ever happened to her. And much more besides.

You’re steadfast in just labelling that as “drunk Chloe things”, because you’re determined not to get your hopes up.

(Too late.)

“Sweetie, I hate to have to say this, but… didn’t I say she was interested in you? I was expecting this sort of thing.”

“Except she’s not into me,” you try to stress. “I just know, okay? I overheard her and Aubrey talking about this girl she has a to—um, she’s interested in. She just sees me as a friend.”

“Are you 100% sure, Beca? Because that’s not much information. I’d go for the girl, darling. It still sounds like you’ve got a chance. You can’t deny how you feel, can you?”

She’s correct, again. You can’t deny that Chloe is the best medicine you have for your suffocation. If you’re not wrapped up in the fact that you can’t have her, then her presence itself calms you down. Slower, deeper, calmer breaths. Something you haven’t really achieved since you were 10. She makes you feel content in a way you’ve not experienced before.

You have to be happy with what you’ve got. It’s all you can have, and a situation like your own means you need to take it. She’s your poison and your remedy all in one; it’s a damn sight better than nothing at all.

You tell yourself that, but doesn’t fully work.

 Sure, you’re happier, more focused in your last week before the big performance, but you can’t help but wish for more. The images dance on the back of your eyelids, just like the images from that night do. They’re a fantasy, in the half-light of the club lights, and that’s all they can ever be.

That doesn’t mean you have to stop thinking about them.

 

.

 

When you win the ICCAs, you realize that you are better than you allowed yourself to think you were.

You win, you _destroy_ the competition, and it’s one of the most euphoric events you’ve ever been part of. When the ICCAs host announce you as the winners, your heart – your body, your spirit –lifted like you’d just found the key to paradise. That rush of ecstasy, mixed with relief, accompany all of you on the way to the trophy. Sweaty, exhausted, and sporting grins the size of Texas, you all are hugging and shouting in everyone’s ears that _we won! We won!_ The screaming gets even louder when Aubrey, Chloe and you lift the trophy up together.

Who knew a piece of metal could be so important? If this were any other occasion, you’d be scornful at how much it means to people – but you feel like you deserve to hold it, that you’re worthy of its coveted name and power. You’re the best a cappella group in the USA. It’s a pretty impressive title, considering just how much work goes into getting to this level.

You feel like you deserve to hold it for other reasons, too. For example, for how much bullshit you had to go through just to get it. How much cardio you struggled through, how much sneering from a certain Posen you had to endure, how many stupid dance moves you were forced to learn. And, more importantly, you deserve it after all of the torment the Bellas had to endure after the semi-finals. The Trebles just lost and replaced a member; you all had to disband and find your sound again. You’ve had to do way more soul-searching than all of the contestants combined, you think.

This is the end of that journey. No more soul-searching, just a little more believing in yourself. You were filled with doubt from the very start, but you’ve proved that you can do this. That you have the ability to get to the very top. And you’ve found that you need other people beside you to share the load, but that’s not a bad thing at all.

As you skim your eyes over the crowd, you feel the pride swell up in you. A standing ovation, no less. Even better, Jesse is standing up too – you could find his boyish grin anywhere in a crowd – so that tells you that things are going to be just fine between you two. And the best thing of all: Chloe wrapping herself around you in a hug that conveys all of the joy she’s feeling, looking at you like you made the sun shine.

Yeah, you’ve done well.

Now’s not the time for soppy, nostalgic monologues, though. Now’s the time for celebrating and partying, drinking so much that your hangover lasts for the whole day.

You want to remember this night, though. So, you don’t want to get _completely_ wasted.

Like in most drinking situations, Fat Amy leads the way to the clubs after all of the ICCAs formalities are over and done with. She runs forward on the sidewalk, screaming something about drinking an alligator under the table, and most of the Bellas follow suit. Aubrey hangs back, supervising the group like always, but Chloe doesn’t go over to talk to her. She gives you an adorable little grin and wraps her fingers around your own.

“I told you, didn’t I?” she says smugly, radiating delight with everything she is. Her step bounces, her smile is wide, and she squeezes your hand when she giggles at you. “I knew you’d be aca- _awesome_.”

“Do you really have to add that prefix onto everything?” you cringe, but there’s no real embarrassment behind it. You can’t really feel anything else but joy at winning the ICCAs, and adoration for the glowing ginger by your side.

“Of _course_ I do, Becs! It makes it better,” she chirps. Her eyes fixate on your forehead and she adds, “Hey, if I put Beca before a word it’ll make it even more awesome! _Beca_ -awesome.”

“Oh, my God,” you sigh, but you’re both laughing. “You’re such a weirdo.”

“Yeah, but I’m _your_ weirdo,” she responds without missing a beat, and she plants a big kiss on your cheek. (It lasts for much longer than the usual cheek kisses. Your heart skips a beat.) “And you love me.”

Yeah, you do. You really do.

“Ah, you caught me there, Beale.”

“Knew it!” she beams. “I knew you’d be willing to sacrifice your reputation for me.”

“Hold on, no one said anything about—”

Your reply is cut off by a shout of victory from the girls in front of you; Chloe and you look at each other with eyebrows raised. Then the other Bellas disappear, and you have to rush to catch up with them. Clearly, they’ve found the first bar of the night. So you follow, and your best friend gives your hand another squeeze when you step inside to greet the pounding bass and the bitter drinks.

And it’s great. It’s exactly what you all need. You can let the euphoria of being national champions wash over you as you throw back drink after drink. (You’re pretty sure a few shots are pushed into your hands, too, but you’re cool with it. You’ll roll with it.) There are no barriers, no hesitations now; even Aubrey has let loose – she’s putting her all into dancing to the remix the DJ’s currently playing.

You can’t imagine being in a better situation right now. You’ve hung back for a while, grinning stupidly at the image of the Bellas being totally wild and totally themselves – Stacie has had no less than two guys simultaneously vying for her attention throughout the whole night, Lilly is mumbling to herself whilst playing with a lighter, and Fat Amy is parading around in the Tasmania t-shirt she’s been wearing underneath her Bella outfit – but you know it won’t be long before you’re on the dancefloor, too.

It’s not long at all; Titanium starts filtering through your drunken brain and suddenly you’re being grabbed by a perfectly manicured hand towards the dancefloor.

“Oh my God, this’s our _song_ , Becs!” Chloe shouts, elongating the ‘e’ in your name. She’s wasted as well, but not enough to forget everything that’s happened or will happen tonight. “We _have_ to dance!”

You can’t refuse – you never can when it comes to the redhead – so you allow yourself to be dragged right into the middle of the dancefloor. You’re enveloped in glaring lights and guitar riffs and pulsating beats and you let go of control. Your body moves without you thinking about it, and your eyes roam the place. You’re pressed up against so many people, you’ve probably exchanged sweat with about five others; you can’t find it in you to care. You don’t care about anything but the music and the feel of your best friend’s body moving with yours.

The music changes again – something even faster, something even more hard-hitting – and Chloe presses up against you further so more people can cram onto the dancefloor. At least, you tell yourself that – but, as you catch her gaze, there’s something hungry in the way she’s looking at you. It’s there in the way she gyrates against you, in the way she bites her lips while staring at you. Your heart is beating out of your chest, because what you think it means is something you’ve wanted yet thought you never could get, but it’s an unmistakable sight. You’re panting, both of you, on the edge of something new and terrifying and exciting, and just one little movement will shove you over the edge.

Then the beat break drops, and before you can fully comprehend what you’re doing, your hands are on Chloe’s face and you’re both leaning in and – oh, _God_ – her lips capture yours.

And, yes, you’re fucked. She’s probably going to regret this in the morning, but right now you can’t think of anything else but how fantastic this feels. It’s easily the best sensation you’ve ever felt in your life. (Even going to Disneyland at age 6 wasn’t as good as this, and that WAS pretty magical.) Then her arms are sliding from your arms to your waist, clutching her hips and rolling her own into yours. The resulting groan that escapes from your mouth makes her smile into the kiss, though you’re sure she’s not the only one who heard that.

Automatically, your hands travel to her hair, bunching up the flames in your fists and feeling yourself be set alight. You can’t think of anything more amazing – no, hearing – Chloe gasp in response.

This was definitely not the sort of thing you were expecting when you woke up this morning, but what you’ve found now is much better. And in the metaphorical sense, you can breathe again – properly, for the first time in forever. You can feel the toxins leaving your body with every hungry breath you take in tandem with the ginger. There’s nothing better.

As you break apart, both of you breathing heavily with wicked smiles on your faces, you realize this is your doing. You took her face in your hands; you initiated this sense of freedom.

And because of that, you can breathe again. Fuck, you can _breathe_ again.

 

.

 

When you win at the ICCAs, you discover that you are more loved than you originally thought.

You don’t forget the night of winning the Finals, when you wake up next morning. You have about three seconds of blissful memories rushing back to you before you feel like you’ve been hit over the head with a hammer, thanks to the hangover, but it’s an incredible three seconds.

Winning the competition. Lifting the trophy. Seeing Jesse’s grin. Walking with Chloe and the Bellas. Partying in the clubs. Kissing Chloe.

Holy shit, you kissed Chloe. Multiple times!

Then the hangover slams you and you elicit a groan loud enough to wake the entire state of Georgia. You feel like death and you swear (possibly internally, possibly out loud) that you’re never drinking again. It’s an empty threat, of course.

“You always say that, Beca,” someone beside you responds. Okay, you definitely said that out loud.

Then it comes to your attention that you’re in a bed with someone right next to you, so you jump in shock only to worsen the throbbing in your head. You yelp softly and put your head down on the pillow. “Fuck, that hurt.”

“Idiot,” the person laughs good-naturedly, and you’d smile if you didn’t feel like someone was drilling a hole through your skull. Also, you think you recognize that voice. (You haven’t opened your eyes. That would be a stupid move.)

“Chloe?” you croak.

“That’s me.” She sounds remarkably cheerful for a hungover student, but that’s just another one of those Chloe things.

You try to swallow, but your mouth’s too dry. “Are we – are we dressed?”

“Yes,” she answers, and you quietly breathe a sigh of relief. You don’t want your first time with her to be spurred on by intoxication. “We didn’t get that far. I think we passed out before we could try.”

“Do you remember?”

She’s quiet, reverent. “All of it.”

You nod slowly, trying to create as little pain as possible. This is something you need to talk about – you haven’t just crossed the line between friendship and something more, you enthusiastically jumped over it and blew it up for good measure. “Can we talk about it after we sleep? I think I’m going to die otherwise.”

“Yep, good idea,” Chloe agrees whole-heartedly, the bed sheets rustling as she moves over to you. You nestle into her arms, hearing her breathing slow and letting your own match her pace, and the warmth that you’ve always associated with the redhead carries you off to sleep again, fully content.

As much as you’d like to stay asleep in Chloe’s arms for the whole day (it’s been one of your dreams for a while now), it appears that Aubrey wants to see all of the Bellas in the restaurant of the hotel at 1pm. Chloe tells you this when she wakes you up; she’s already dressed and coaxing her hair to look “casual, but not too much, do you get what I mean?”

You want to say that it looks amazing, it always does, but you’re still not sure where you stand with your relationship with her, so you just nod.

Chloe has recovered from her hangover, it seems, but you’re only just feeling like a human being. Nevertheless, she bosses you about, tapping you on the butt so you yelp and move over to your wardrobe much more quickly (somehow you two ended up in your room last night), and reviving you with coffee. You call her your savior a few times because of it. (You just really love coffee, okay?)

However, you still haven’t had the conversation you really need to have yet, and your best friend seems to be perfectly fine with not having it as you walk down to the main restaurant. You, on the other hand, might explode if you put it off for any longer – you keep glancing over to a perfectly content and alert Chloe, while a scowl is starting to appear on your face. (Side effect of both the hangover and your general reaction to the waking world.)

She seems so content in not talking about it, that you’re taken by surprise and very relieved when she pounces on Aubrey as soon as you get downstairs, excusing the both of you from her victory speech. Before a single noise escapes your mouth, she’s dragging you away from the swanky interior of the restaurant. Behind you, the Bellas (in various hungover states – Fat Amy is still in her pajamas, for example, and Lilly is fixing everything with a somehow more devilish glare) watch your backs leave the room with a keen desire to follow you. And curiosity. So much curiosity.

But this is not for their prying eyes. This is for you two only.

Chloe slams the restaurant doors behind you (it’s way too loud), trapping you between them and herself. And, really, it’s not a bad situation to be in – but you’re already nervous as it is, and Chloe being so close to you is making things even more unbearable.

“Okay,” she starts, fixing you with an intense look. It’s equal parts confident and equal parts vulnerable – she’s sure what she wants, but the rest is up to you. Her lower lip trembles as she wonders, “You remember too?”

You feel like you're back at the stalls again, being held captive by her eyes; that wonder that was fresh the first time you saw her is still there. Her eyes can do so much to you, just by you looking at them. She holds so much power over you, but she'd never use it to exploit you.

Still, it's scary. But wonderful.

She’s not actually pinning you back, but you’re finding it very hard to breathe now, never mind _move_. (Plus, the ridge for the window inside the door is digging into your back.) Yet, somehow, you muster up enough energy to reply. “Y-Yes.”

“And… you don’t regret it?”

You shake your head. “Never.”

She breathes out. “Good, good. Just checking, you know.” Then, she shoots a dazzling smile your way, and your own lips stretch automatically. “So where do you want to go with this? We’ve kind of crossed a line, haven’t we? It’s up to you, Beca.”

Oh, she is entirely too sweet. Of course she leaves it up to you to take this further or not. It’s in this moment that you curse your complete inability to form coherent sentences in situations like this. You want to tell her that, God, yes, you want to start a relationship with her – but it’s just not that easy for you.

“I mean, we – we could,” you stammer. “I mean, date. If you want. But I’m t-totally cool with, like, anything, ‘cause I don’t want to put – you under pressure or anything.”

And breathe. In. Out.

She chuckles under her breath, but it’s not nasty in any respect. “You’re cute, Becs,” she grins sweetly. She takes your hands in hers and whispers, “I would _love_ to date you. I’ve wanted to for a while.”

You must be imagining things, surely. There’s no universe where Chloe would want to date you. But the look on her face is completely earnest, and her hands linking with yours feel so real. And if that isn’t evidence enough, then the sound of your heart pounding at the ginger’s words should be.

This is your doing. You made the first move. And you’re so freaking glad you did.

Your smile gets wider, reflecting the co-captain’s own beam. “That’s cool. Me too. We should – we should give this a shot, then, right?”

“Totes!” she chirps. Then it settles into a smaller, but more playful smile, and her eyes glint. “Does this mean I can kiss you now?”

The words, “Do you even need to ask?” start to leave your mouth – but you only manage a “Do you—” before Chloe kisses you and turns your insides to mush. It’s a different kiss to the ones you shared last night; it’s soft and slow, and so full of emotion that you want to jump inside it forever. Every touch, every feeling, of her lips and her hands on you, the sound of her quickening breath, it pulls at something inside of you and the heat spreads through you like a wildfire. Your hands disentangle and yours clutch Chloe’s arms, while hers grip your waist. It’s perfect, it’s beyond perfect, and there’s nothing that can bring you down now.

Except you do actually need oxygen, so you break apart and hold each other tighter.

“That’s a really good cure for a hangover,” you note, and she giggles.

And a good remedy for everything else, you think. Namely, suffocation. You’ve missed breathing easily, missed it for eight years. But it’s back now, and you’re reveling in it.

She opens her mouth to say something else – but then her eyes widen as she focuses on something behind you. Her mouth hangs open, before she covers it with her hand, and she blushes while she laughs again. “Oh, my God, I _totally_ forgot there was a window there!”

Oh, _no_. You snap your head around – and your worst fears are proven; the Bellas are standing just on the inside of the restaurant, peeking at the both of you. And of course they have to be giggling and whooping for you. And of course they have to be handing over money to each other, presumably having lost or won bets.

Your cheeks go as red as Chloe’s hair, but she giggles again and buries her face in your neck.

Weirdos. You still love them, though.

* * *

 

You’re 18 when you discover that life isn’t always going to be like it had been, that you’re not always going to be walking around with the chains locked and ready around your neck.

You’re 18 when you discover that there _are_ people who alleviate the chafing of the cold, unforgiving metal; they can give you the confidence to detach the chains from your neck yourself.

That’s the thing, though. You never expected that _you_ would be the one to do this. But you were. You did.

This year changed it all for you. You weren’t even supposed to _go_ to college, never mind experience life-changing memories. And yet, here you are. The noose is just rope, bunched up in your hand; the chains lie broken around your feet. And this was your doing. Your choices. Your consequences.

You’ve had help along the way. Life, you’ve come to understand, isn’t something you can shoulder by yourself. Despite your lack of patience for the outside world, people will stick around and make spending time with you worth it. Your mom was there to help you; she got you through the darkest moments. Your relationship with your dad is slowly improving. Jesse is such a dork and he gets on your nerves, but you kind of love him anyway and he’s been on your side even when it didn’t feel like it. The Bellas are becoming your sisters, your greatest allies and friends. (Yes, even Aubrey. You’ve both decided to lay off the hate-fest.) And Chloe. She’s been a driving force behind it all.

You’re so thankful for Chloe. For her warmth, her comfort, her sunny demeanour that can cheer you up even on your worst days. She’s so open and frank with you, and it’s one of the many reasons why you’re so, so in love with her. Now, as you start a new year at Barden as girlfriends (girlfriends! You still can’t believe you get to call her your girlfriend), you’re there for each other, to pick the other girl up when life gets a bit rough.

She was always there for you in the first place, and you were for her. But it’s different now. Better. So much better.

It’s pretty perfect.

And it’s your doing.

See, Chloe has helped you realize that you’re in control. She has guided you towards this – to loosening the noose, to taking the chains from your throat. She’s there to rub the friction burns and soothe them; she’s there to hold you when it feels like the toxins are settling in again.

But you took them off yourself. You know what it’s like to breathe again, and you did that for yourself.

So you’re 1 when you first discover what it feels like to suffocate. But you’re 18, almost 19, when you refuse to be held back any more. It’s been one hell of a journey, but you’ve made it. And that’s the greatest feeling.

(It seems freeing yourself has only made you more susceptible to clichés, too. But whatever. You’re happy. You’re really happy. And you wouldn’t change that for anything.)

**Author's Note:**

> If you enjoyed reading this, please tell me! I love it when readers give kudos or comment on my work (or even just read it, that's an amazing thing in itself)! I appreciate it all so much, so thank you in advance!
> 
> If you want to talk at all, hop over to teacupsandbechloe.tumblr.com; my ask box is always open! Or you can message me on @gunbxtch on Twitter!
> 
> Also I wrote a poem about it on my poem/writing blog. If you're mildly curious, check it out! http://furlingforestsforthesoft.tumblr.com/post/138173283604/poem-inspired-by-this-song-and-this-fanfiction-i


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